With a whistle and a dream

So WE ARE STANDING in the tunnel of some dank stadium at 8 a.m., waiting for opening ceremonies to begin. Across from me, a talented little team of 4- and 5-year-olds has somehow managed to scale a 6-foot stone wall that leads, I think, to some rusty girders. My instinct is to let them have their fun, but playing on rusty girders is not what AYSO is all about.

“OK, Fireballs, down from the wall,” I order.

“Why?”

“Because,” I say.

I keep hearing that children are our most precious resource, but, frankly, I don’t buy it. Our most precious? Compared to what? Oil? Timber? Zinc? Are children more precious than, say, drinking water? Gimme a break. Children are only our sixth or seventh most precious resource, right behind natural gas (of which they produce plenty, let me tell you).

“Hey, Coach?”

“Yeah?”

“When are we going in?”

“Real soon,” I say.

Still, I love them madly, these kids. We are 45 years apart in age, but we have a lot in common. Short attention spans. Itsy-bitsy bladders. A genuine mistrust of women. The soccer season is just beginning, yet we have begun to bond, to share our life experiences and our concerns for the near future.

The little team -- there are 10 of them -- looks to me for wisdom, direction, inspiration. They have no idea that they are being coached by someone who struggles mightily with consumer debt, who slurs his words even when sober, who strays politically from party to party -- one day Whig, the next day Federalist. Nope, to them I am just their coach. A big lug with a whistle and a dream.

“I have to pee,” one of them says.

“Me too,” I say.

Nearby is a woman as lovely as a country pond -- ephemeral and soft. She is carrying a videocam and a cup of coffee the size of a small Jacuzzi.

I’ve found this woman to be relentlessly loving and loyal. Funny. Good with kids. Photographs well. If my wife ever finds out about her, I’m toast.

No, wait, that is my wife. My bad. The eyes, they get a little weaker every year. Besides, I increasingly see life through a misty lens. I think I might be developing one of those peanut allergies.

“You OK?” she asks.

“Never better,” I say.

“Never?”

“Once or twice, I’ve been better,” I say.

“I doubt that,” she says, then takes a gigantic gulp of coffee -- you know, just to stay conscious.

As moms go, she should be nearing retirement. Her first opening-day parade was almost two decades ago. Since then, she has enjoyed/endured a life of team sports, back-to-school nights, kids’ birthday parties and too many Bill Murray movies to even mention.

I think she sort of expected it all to be over by now. Guess she just got lucky.

It is 8:30 now, and, gradually, the tunnel is filling up with other teams. We were supposed to line up promptly at 8, but as with most things involving 3,000 children, a few of them are late. By my count, 2,990 of them are late.

“Where is everybody?” someone asks.

“Parades are like this,” I explain.

“We’re going to be in a parade?” one of the boys asks.

Yes, I tell the Fireballs, we’re going to be in a parade. The parents will be up in the stands. We’ll walk out into this gigantic old stadium to see thousands of beaming moms and dads. Be patient with them, for they find almost everything you do worthy of celebration. Be sure to wave.

And into the stadium we finally go, along with hundreds of other teams. Some trends are immediately apparent. Almost all the boys’ teams are named “The Transformers.” Most of the girls’ teams have the color of the uniforms incorporated into their names -- the Pink Cotton Candy or the Green Leprechauns. I find that redundant. Isn’t most cotton candy pink? Aren’t all leprechauns a little green?

Anyway, we’re out of there in an hour, not much more, which is pretty much a record for an opening-day ceremony. Only one politician speaks. “Let the games begin!” during which most of the teams are already stampeding for the exits, no offense.

An hour later, we play a very hungry opponent -- the Transformers -- coached by a stand-in who tries to tell us that he doesn’t know what he’s doing. But you couldn’t tell. The Transformers seem to want it more than we do. The Fireballs apparently left their best game in that stadium tunnel, scaling stone walls and discussing where puppies come from.

One kid was pretty sure it’s trees.

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Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com. For more columns, see latimes.com/erskine.